Part 13 (1/2)

Maybe a sip of soda will stop my stomach from churning. I reach down and grab the can. Across the way I can see a freshman pacing. He's next. I take a long swig. The bubbly sweetness slides down my throat. I have high hopes for this soda because in addition to stopping the nausea, I need a boost of energy to hop over to the corner and grab that traffic cone. I've gotta get my toe up. It couldn't possibly hurt any freaking more.

The audience erupts into applause. I go. I figure the clapping will drown out the sound if I crash to the floor in a dead faint. I hop the two steps to the cone, grab it, hop the two steps back, and plop into the chair.

Everything goes black. ”Uh-oh,” I whisper. I should've done that slower. It takes a few minutes for my eyes to work again.

The piano kid's cla.s.sical piece fills the auditorium. With my head resting on the wall behind me, I listen. He's playing way better than at rehearsals. Good for him.

”Look at her, Sydney.” Cara and Sydney stand in the doorway. ”She took her mother's pills or something.”

I chuckle and lift my foot. ”For that. It's broken.” I give them a big smile.

Sydney squats down next to me. ”Could I have one?”

Cara playfully swats at her shoulder. ”Syd! We have to help her.”

”What? If it's that good, then I want one. I don't have to perform.” She twists up her hair and then lets it fall back onto her shoulders.

I reach into my front pocket and am about to pull out the bottle of Vicodin when Cara says, ”She's going to get up there and do something stupid.”

Stupid? I'm not sharing anything with these two. I close my eyes and will them to leave. I don't want to hear either of their voices anymore.

Cara says, ”I've gotta go. Mrs. Salvatore's going to kill me if I'm not ready to go on. Dell's, like, pa.s.sed out anyway.” Cara's heels click-clack as she walks down the hall.

I don't open my eyes because if I do, I'll cry. Sydney whispers in my ear, ”Sorry about the cow drawing. Taryn made me do it. She was pretty mad about what you did to Brandon that night at the party.” She stops talking and pulls away. I pretend that my eyelids are superglued shut.

”Please don't tell Taryn I told you. I felt really s.h.i.+tty about it. I-I tried to tell you that day in cla.s.s. I went to Mr. Drueller and told him I was worried about you.”

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter.

”I didn't tell Mr. Drueller anything about Brandon, Dell. I swear.”

I swallow hard. Everyone believes Brandon's story. No one has bothered to ask for the truth. Is it that hard for people to consider the opposite happeninga”Brandon raping me?

And Cara never went to Mr. Drueller.

She's not worried about me, about how I feel, about our friends.h.i.+p.

Cara is worried I'll do something stupid onstage.

No one is worried about me.

Eating Electric Guitar Notes.

SYDNEY AND HER REVELATIONS ARE LONG GONE.

I hate people right now. I'd like to barricade myself in this corner backstage. I could build another wall and install a lock and it would be my own little dark cave. I wouldn't mind putting a cot and TV in here. Well, as long as I could have some food delivered.

I lift my foot to rest it on the pointy part of the cone, but my tree trunk of a leg won't cooperate. My leg and foot slam to the ground, and I shriek in agony. A hand covers my mouth again, and I quickly realize it's my own. Lava-hot pain rips through my foot. The audience is still cheering for the last performance. I don't think anyone heard me.

Lying down has an urgent appeal to me. My eyes roam the s.p.a.ce. There is not enough room.

I watch Darren and Ty do their magic act. Let's just say they're no David or Criss. They give a good go, though, and the audience claps. Then two girls butcher some love song. More clapping. Blah. Blah. Blah.

Even though the acts can all see me sitting over here, they don't acknowledge me. The show goes on. During a tap dancer's set, I have a brilliant idea and flip over the cone, giving me a much wider place to rest my calf. In theory. The problem is twofold now: 1. I still have to get my leg up.

2. It'll be like trying to balance my leg on the tip of an ice-cream cone.

But I have to relieve the pressure on my foot. My toe feels like it's going to explode. I don't know if toes can actually do that, but I'm not taking any chances. That would be gross.

I'm gross enough as it is.

Brandon's sister, Kim, and her friend are onstage with six other girls now, cheering their hearts out. Rah. Rah. Barf. I'm glad I'm in the dark because I'm giving them the finger and, oh, is it satisfying to flip those two off.

I put my hand down as the cheerleaders scurry off stage right. But Kim and her friend skip toward me, arm-in-arm, giggling. Before I have time to yank the cone out of the way, Kim trips over it.

Since the chipper skippers' arms were linked, they both go down. Hard. The fall breaks them apart, and one lies facedown, arms and legs spread. Kim ends up in a twisted fetal position. For a second, I wonder if the girl who face-planted is dead, but she pushes herself up onto her hands and knees and crawls to Kim. ”Are you all right?”

Kim sits up and shakes her head. As her face turns toward the light from the illuminated EXIT sign above the door, I see blood.

Kim's cheek is bleeding.

”You're blee'ing,” I say. That didn't come out right. My mouth refuses to form words. How am I going to sing?

The two girls yelp at the same time. I'm guessing they didn't know I was still sitting in the dark. How can you miss me? Seriously.

Kim reaches up and wipes her cheek, effectively smearing the blood. Now she looks like she's ready to head off into battle or tackle the quarterback. ”Oh my G.o.d! I'm bleeding!” Kim says to me with pleading eyes as she stands up. ”You put that cone there on purpose. Didn't you?” She holds a helping hand out to her friend. ”I told you, Julia, Taryn said she's a fat b.i.t.c.h. So did Brandon.”

Under my breath I say, ”Your brother's a skinny a.s.shole.”

Both girls raise their eyebrows at me in shock. I don't give a rat's hiney what these two think. I hope they tell him what I said.

Word. For. Word.

I can hear Cara playing her jazzy tune on the piano, which means I'm on in one act. I wanted to prop up my foot, and that never happened. I wanted to clear my head, and that never happened. At this point I don't give a s.h.i.+t about anything. I just want it done and over with. And I want these two freshman b.i.t.c.hes away from me.

”Come on, Julia,” Kim says. She yanks her arm and pulls her toward the door. ”Let's go find Brandon.”

”Kim, Julia.” I reach up and blow them a big exaggerated kiss. ”Catch it. Give that to Brandon.”

They push open the stage door, and Kim snarls over her shoulder, ”You wish, you fat f.u.c.k.” As the door closes, their cackles mix with the audience's applause. It reminds me of machine-gun fire from those stupid action movies. I can nearly feel the bullets whiz by my face.